


Stay

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The idea that he might have driven John off for the last time sends Sherlock over the edge. Help from a stranger sets him to rights again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Just a cute lil story I thought up the other day at work(I drive a 3000lbs cherry picker, I'm going to get someone killed while thinking up Johnlock stories). It's not season 3 compatible, you can just set this down anywhere between season one and two. Little bit sweet, little bit sad but like a nice amount I think. Tiny case right in the middle to pad it out, give it some substance and push the story along. Hope you guys like it. :)

_“Sod this. I'm tired of arguing with you about it.”_

_“You'll be back."_

_“What if I didn't come back? What would you do then?”_

Nineteen hours later Sherlock lay stock still on the couch, not having moved from his seat since John had pulled his coat on and walked out. No texts, no calls, nothing from John saying 'I'm at Mike's. I'll be home tomorrow' or 'Harry let me crash on her couch.' Nothing. He had no idea where John was and if he had taken the question seriously when it was asked, he might have followed John out the door and hounded him until he turned around and came home. But he hadn't.

_If he comes back, you'll only drive him off again later. How much longer do you expect him to put up with you?_

He rolled over and put his back to the room, scrunched up as tight as he could to protect the weakest part of himself. Fruitless gesture. The threat came from within.

The phone rang suddenly and he spun, dove for it, slid through a stack of magazines, over top the coffee table and rolled until he was on his back.

"John!" 

"No, it's Greg."

"Who?" He snapped.

"Oh, piss off. I know you remember my name."

He glanced at the screen. Lestrade. Ah. "What do you want?" He grumbled, disappointed, until he remembered perhaps John had gone round to Lestrade's for the night. "Is John with you?"

"No. Isn't he with you?"

He sighed. "What did you call about?" A knot had formed at the base of his neck and he rubbed it out.

"Possible murder/suicide. Trying to tie up a few loose ends giving us trouble. Will you come?"

He didn't want to leave the flat, in case John returned, but if he sat there on the couch much longer molecular bonding might occur and he'd be unable to reach the kitchen for food or experiments. "Where?"

"Kensington."

"Text me the address. On my way." He hung up and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Should he try texting John again to let him know where he'd gone? A glance at his phone said his unanswered texts to John had reached twenty-four. Perhaps not then. 

His coat was an afterthought and it was a miracle he remembered his shoes as he tore from the flat, suddenly in a panic to get away from what seemed like the scene of a horrific nightmare. The worst thing Sherlock could imagine was John never coming home. As long as Sherlock wasn't home, he could pretend that John was. Insane logic, that.

"Kensington. Oakwood Lane," he told the cabbie after glancing at his phone for the address. He was still staring at his phone, unable to decide if he should text John again or not, when the cab stopped. 

Lestrade met him outside the home of the victims with a scowl. "Lose your partner?"

He ignored him and walked passed into the house. "Where are they?" He growled. 

"Kitchen. Down the hall."

He stopped and cocked his head. "Not the bedroom?"

"No, why? That make a difference?"

"Maybe." He continued on. The home was narrow but wide windows in the sitting room let in ample amount of light, making it seem larger than it was. The walls, painted a standard off white, were adorned with family photos. Normally he wouldn't bother looking unless necessary to the case, or until he had at least seen the crime scene first, but one caught his eye. Two men, handsome, clearly together, in a classic newly wed pose. He stared, probably longer than was prudent, until Lestrade coughed. 

"Just through here," he mumbled with his arm out.

He nodded and proceeded into the kitchen. 

"Oh," he breathed as he stopped in his tracks. The familiar tactile sensation of the Belstaff hitting the back of his knees did little to calm his shocked nerves. 

The couple from the photo. They were the homeowners. The stockier of the two had fallen as if he had been ambushed in the doorway, the slighter, blond partner had fallen closer to the island in the center. He immediately started recreating the scene, omitting the obvious placement of the gun in the blonds hand in his deduction as he walked the parameter of the room. 

"Gunshot residue?" He questioned without looking up from the brunet's bullet entry wound. _Frontal bone cranial damage, no exit due to small caliber round, M1911 specifically, killed instantly._ He turned to the blond, the 'suicide' victim. _Sphenoid damage, also from small caliber pistol, staged to look self inflicted._

"No, that's what we're stuck on. It was staged, we get that. But these guys were upstanding. According to their records they have no enemies, nor any reason to have made enemies. James here," he motioned to the blond at Sherlock's feet, "works for the Red Cross and volunteers at the blood drives every weekend. Francis, Frankie to his friends, is a Prof at West Minster. Teaches Sociology. Nothing was stolen, nothing touched at all, save these two."

"Neither had military backgrounds?" He studied the blood splatter back spray on the counter, minimal considering the size of the trauma, and recreated the scene. 

"No. Why?"

"Frankie hired a hitman to kill James. It backfired on him, the killer was homophobic, came for them both. Check their finance records, look for medium sized withdrawals taken out multiple times in the last six weeks. I'll ask around, see if the Network has heard specifically of this M.O." He stood.

"What? You've only been here five minutes!"

He sighed and held out his hand.

"You said John helped you think on cases but I don't think I've ever seen you work that fast before...What?" He scowled at Sherlock's upturned hand.

"Give me one."

"One what? A high five? Christ, you are needy."

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard he could feel the _orbital rectus_ movements inside his skull. "A cigarette. Give me one."

Lestrades eyes narrowed and he rocked back on his heels. "I quit, remember?"

"I can smell it on you." That and he'd stopped chewing his nails. 

"I could have picked it up anywhere. Maybe I was at a pub earlier."

He tightened his hand into a fist and growled, "So help me, Gary, if you don't-"

"Oh, take the whole pack," he snapped and shoved them into his hand. "And it's Greg, you twat."

Sherlock was already down the hall by the time Lestrade corrected him. He brushed passed the forensic team, thankful Anderson wasn't involved for once, and parked heavily on the marble stoop. He shook a fag out of the pack and only belatedly remembered Lestrade carried a personalized Zippo in his pocket. His head fell heavy between his shoulders.  Couldn't even have a smoke without some cock up. He was ready to start yelling at Lestrade for help when-

"You look like you could use some help, son."

A lighter made it's way into his vision. He looked up at the small flame as if it held all of life's secrets in it's flickering glow. 

"Bless you," he said to the unseen stranger and bent to light his cigarette. The first drag was pure, indulgent bliss. He closed his eyes and envisioned opium dens with silk cushions in decadent colors. And these were low tar.

"Are you a detective?" The Saint of Kensington asked.

He looked up at the woman. _Elderly, early sixties, retired librarian, bad hip, recently widowed, no children but three small dogs._  

"In a manor of speaking," he answered. "Were you a friend of the family?"

"We weren't close, no."

"Ah," he mumbled. 

She scowled. "Not for that reason, son. They kept to themselves. I would gladly have welcomed their company." She waved at him to scoot over and he obliged. She settled beside him and took a drag off her own cigarette. "What is it with you young people? Do you think you invented homosexuality? My cousin Marv was as gay as the day is long and he was my best friend. Died in a jungle in Vietnam but he was the kindest man to ever walk God's green earth."

 "My condolences."

She scoffed. "It was a long time ago." Another shared drag off their cigarettes. "They said it was a murder/suicide?" She questioned. 

He didn't know how to respond. Would it be kinder to let her think they had agreed to die together, one had murdered the other and then ended himself, or that one had paid to have the other killed and then had been murdered as well? "That's what they say."

"What do you say?" She looked him straight on. 

"I say it was a tragedy."

She nodded sagely. "Yes. It is." Another long drag. She tapped the fag with the ease of someone long used to the cylinder between their fingers. "I'll never understand. I was married for forty-six years and you know what our secret was?"

He shook his head, uncertain why he was interested in the information. 

"When you get mad, walk away. But you always come back." She pointed at him with her cigarette for emphasis. 

He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "What if they don't come back?" He didn't mean the question to slip out, it just did.

"Well, son, then it's not meant to be. If you love someone, you always come back. They say communication is key, and to an extent, it is. But being there," another point of the cigarette, "showing that you still want to try, that makes all the difference in the world. If James and Frankie had marital troubles, they could have come to me, I'd have told them the same thing. If you love someone, you stay. Simple as that."

Sherlock rejected this advise outright. Not only because he's seen firsthand what had happened to people that had stayed but because what if one knew they were toxic. What if leaving was the best thing for both parties? He didn't voice his opinion. Bit not good, John would have said. 

"If I could do it all over again, I wouldn't change a damn thing. I loved John. He could be a pain in the arse but so could I. We walked out a lot over the years but we always came back. That's what you do. You stay." Another point of her cigarette.

"John?" He whispered, feeling like he was in some other dimension. 

"My late husband. Up and left two years ago and never came back, the bastard. Cancer will do that though, won't it?" She held her cigarette up as if to toast. 

"Hey," Lestrade called from the doorway. "You going to explain yourself so I can finish this damn investigation?"

Normally Sherlock would have snapped at him to solve his own damn murders, but he was feeling charitable all of a sudden. He leapt up and tossed the cigarette pack back at him. 

"I'll come by your office tomorrow. I've got another case to work on."

"Really?" He looked surprised. "Hey! What other case?" He called to Sherlock's back.

"Missing person!" He turned and waved at the woman. "Thanks for the light."

"Anytime, son."

He ran for the main road and flagged down a passing cab. 

"Where to?" The driver asked.

Where was he going? Harry's? Mike's? Hell, even Molly would have put him up for the night if he had asked. "Baker Street," he decided. He'd start at the scene of the crime first.

Before the cab even stopped rolling he flung the fare at the driver and leapt from the door. He'd use his laptop to hack John's mobile account, see who he'd called since yesterday and then-

"Oh! John!" He exclaimed. 

The man turned and looked up from his chair, paper in his lap, tea on the side table, as if he had never left, hadn't walked out and crushed Sherlock to pieces. He found himself walking forward, unable to control even the slightest movement. When he stopped in front of his legs John opened his mouth but nothing came out. He looked especially shocked when Sherlock fell to his knees, ripped the paper away and buried his face into the man's stomach. His arms dug between John's back and the chair until they met and he squeezed, pushing his head into John as hard as he could. It wasn't something he'd ever done before and though he knew this was abrupt and not something flatmates were supposed to do, he couldn't stop. It felt like he'd been wasting away in a desert and John was the first sip of cool water. The feel of his thin jumper against his cheek, the warmth of his body beneath, the sound of his accelerated heartbeat, oh, it was wonderful. He squeezed tighter.  

"Sherlock," John breathed, a question but not demanding, just curious. A hand came to rest on his shoulder and Sherlock could have purred. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

He nodded manically against John's stomach.

"I only ask because," a pause in which Sherlock could tell John had licked his lips, "you're, uh, you seem upset."

He pulled back, just enough to see John's face. He looked back, searching for the cause of this sudden closeness. Sherlock had never been a coward. He knew what he had to do to make sure that terror he had felt at John leaving never happened like that again. Being wrong never even factored into his decision. 

"John, do you love me?"

John looked stricken. Terrified. "What...I..." He licked his lips nervously.

"The woman at the crime scene, she said, when you love someone, you come back. No matter what. I didn't believe a word of it because statistically, most multiple domestic disputes escalate because one or both partners refuses to leave the hostile environment, but she said it and it made me think, if you love me, maybe you'll always come back and then I won't have to worry again. Not like I did today. Please say you do, because if you don't I don't think I could live if you left again and I didn't know where you were or if you were ever coming back. I just don't know what I would do..."

He'd since put his face back to John's lap when he couldn't stop the idiotic confession spilling from his lips.

Not until John ran his fingers through his hair and whispered, "Yes."

He raised up to see John's face. "Yes?" He nodded, a determined certainty there, but the hand in his hair shook. "You're sure?"

"Quite."

"Is it...are you all right?"

He coughed out a surprised laugh. "I'm glad I'm sitting down, because I can't feel my legs, but yeah. I'm good."

A smile formed and once it started he couldn't stop it. It felt like something warm and alive had opened up in his chest, which should be alarming, but he liked it. "You love me."

John smiled back. "Yeah. Probably more than is healthy, but, yeah."

"No! It's very healthy," he assured. John smirked, clearly seeing though his attempt. 

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

"Yes! Anything!"

"Do you remember why I walked out last night?"

"Oh," he huffed. It took a lot of back tracking, sifting through the memory of today and all the awful pining on the sofa, until he remembered the argument.   
"Yes! I used all of your bootlaces for that crime scene diorama." He smiled, pride twofold, once for remembering and once for the brilliance of said diorama, still sitting on the kitchen table.

"Yes. I'd like you to take into account that, yes, I love you and I will most likely always come back," Sherlock frowned at the 'Most likely' bit, "but if you love me, you'll take into account why I tend to walk out in the first place."

"Because," he drawled, unsure.

"Because," John drawled back, waiting for Sherlock to answer. "I'm ang-"

"Angry!" He grinned.

"Yes," he agreed. "Genius, you are." He ruffled Sherlock's hair and if he'd had a tail it would be thumping. "If you start listening to me and maybe even anticipating something that will make me angry and _not_ do those things, I won't walk out half as much."

"Oh. Well why didn't you just say so from the beginning?"

 John laughed. Before Sherlock could register what it meant, John looking at his mouth and leaning in, he was being kissed.

_Warm, soft, connected to John, touching John, touching John's mouth, John touching my mouth, dry, soft, warm, John._

By the time he came back to himself, John had his hands over his face. He had spoken, what had he said? He thought back. 'I'm sorry. I thought...I'm sorry.'

"John," he rumbled, his voice several octaves lower than was normal. "Do it again."

He peaked from behind his fingers, seeming to gauge Sherlock's seriousness. Sherlock decided he was taking too long to figure it out, so he pulled his hands away and climbed into his lap. John's eyes widened by this sudden act but they closed as soon as Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. 

_Hot, slick, wet, licking, tongue, teeth, John, John, John!_

A knock. "Woo woo." _Mrs. Hudson. Ignore._

He would have gone on ignoring but John pulled away. _No!_

"Stop, you nut." John squirmed. 

"Boys? Oh, there you are. Sorry to interrupt. I just popped in to invite you downstairs. My niece is in from Gloucestershire."

"Uhhh..." John looked from her to Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson! John loves me!" Sherlock exclaimed, quite proud of this development.

She laughed. "Well, of course he does, you silly goose."

He sucked in a breath. "You knew!" He accused.

"Dear, we all knew." She laughed again and looked at John to say 'What's gotten into him?' "Are you coming down?"

"In a minute, Mrs. Hudson," John answered. 

"In three days," Sherlock countered, glaring down at him. John glared back.

Mrs. Hudson tsked. "Oh, do what you want. You'll only annoy her until she leaves anyway." She waved them off and left. 

Sherlock smiled triumphantly. 

"You're going to apologize to her later."

"For what?" He scowled.

"For being rude to her and the invitation."

"Oh, I'm sorry, John, would you rather be downstairs making small talk with the receptionist niece?" He planted himself more firmly in John's lap.

His eyes rolled nicely and Sherlock leaned in for another kiss. "Wait," he demanded, hand to Sherlock's shoulders.

He pouted. "What?"

"Do you love me back?"

Sherlock blinked. Hadn't they established that part? "Yes. Obviously."

"It's not obvious to me. Have you ever been in love before?"

"No. I love my parents, I think. And I had a dog once." That counted surely. But John frowned as if no, it didn't. He tried to put how he felt into better words. "I miss you when you're not around. I think about you when I should be thinking about other things. When you compliment me it's like being wrapped in a warm blanket, pulled snug and tight. I think making you laugh is my favorite thing in the world. Just having you around the flat, even if we're not doing anything, makes me happy. The way you type, that two fingered tapping, it should be irritating but I find it...endearing, yes, endearing. Seeing you with a gun in your hand makes my heart pound. That's actually distracting when we're on cases, possibly dangero _Mmmph"_

John's kiss came close to bruising this time, but he liked it. 

By the time they pulled apart to breathe Sherlock had to ask, "So, that's love then?"

"Yes. I believe it is."

"Can we get portraits done? For the flat?"

"What?"

"Portraits. For the flat," he reiterated, loudly for emphasis. 

"All right! We'll get portraits done."

"And I want a dog. We'll get a dog too."

"Jesus, you've put a lot of thought into this whole domesticity thing, haven't you?"

He nodded. "Just now, yes."

John smiled. "This is going to be fun."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So cute. I'm glad my brain didn't take this one off the deep end, as it is wont to do. Feedback is my drug of choice, don't feel bad for enabling me.  
> And as always, feel free to check me out on Tumblr at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


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